“No.”

“What else?”

“I have a question about taxidermy.”

“The book’s about fur.”

“The question’s about taxidermy.”

“Sure. I know something about taxidermy.” Said like we were somewhere in Upstate New York and I was a clueless tourist.

“You ever seen something like this?”

I unfolded a color printout of a photograph of the hummingbird, from the internet café.

Fusk took the photo from me without breaking eye contact. Then looked down with caution, as if I might be dangerous. When he was done looking, he let it fall from his hand onto the counter. For some reason, I’d thought he wouldn’t give it back.

“And there’s this,” I said, pulling out a photo of the “R.S.” on the bottom of the hummingbird’s stand.

A flicker of interest? Maybe.

I pulled out my photograph of Langer. “And what about him?”

Fusk’s bad eye widened. Then went slack again.

“You a cop?” Fusk asked.

“No. Detective. Private eye.” I said it without thinking. I couldn’t tell you why, except it seemed like the truth. Pursuing a mystery made me a detective.

“Identification?” Fusk asked.

“I don’t have to give you that.”

“Then I don’t have to answer your questions.”

I sighed, like this scene had played out before. Even if my heart beat fast.

“I’m out-of-state. You don’t have to answer, but then I’ll liaise with the police department and maybe you’ll have to talk to them instead.”

A huge adrenaline rush as I said the words. Overwhelming. I had to steady myself, as if a wave was about to knock me over.

Fusk considered that. I’d never play poker against him, but something shifted in his expression. I’d shifted it with my threat.

Then he turned to the shelves behind him, found a book, turned back to me.

It was a second copy of Furtown. In much better condition.

“The one you’ve got isn’t a first edition,” he said. “This one is. It’s five hundred bucks, not thirty. You should really get this one.”

I started to argue that I didn’t care what edition I had, then understood.

“Sure.”

Five hundred dollars. Why didn’t I hesitate? Why didn’t I walk away? Because: I had five hundred dollars on me. In fact, I had a thousand. Just in case. I hadn’t known what I would need or when I would need it. Withdrawn from the bank before I’d left the West Coast.

I counted out the bills on the counter, let him pick them up. Then he slid the book across to me, took the other one back. I wondered if Furtown had been a big seller back in the day.

“After, I never see you again,” Fusk said.

“Sure.” Easy enough to say.

“Okay. But I’m taking a break. You like coffee?”

He put the closed sign up, led me through the back and up some stairs and into a second-floor living room with a wrought iron balcony looking out on a closed-in courtyard full of unexpected fruit trees. Somewhere beyond the living room was a little bedroom and a bathroom. I realized later I had followed him like “private eye” was some kind of armor against calamity.